


sidereal

by aerialbots



Series: constellations [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cybertronian Civil War, Families of Choice, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, The Aerialbots' A+ Anger Management Skills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-11 07:46:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13519698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerialbots/pseuds/aerialbots
Summary: "He touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for." -- Richard Siken,You Are Jeff.Sparks, like stars, can fall into orbit with each other. Stardust, however, is usually not so closely involved.





	sidereal

**Author's Note:**

> Falls in with [aureal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5525264) and [thy fearful symmetry](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4985482), because I refuse to let the mess Bay made of the movies lie.
> 
> Posted with all the love to Kath and Aki, who not only let me drag them into my nonsense, but cheer me along the entire time.

The Aerialbots always smile when they see Ratchet.

If they’re clinging to consciousness in the slightest  -- and they do, they always do, too stubborn and hurt and far too vindictive to do anything but cling and rage, and refuse to go gently -- and catch a glimpse of him, however blurred, they always smile. They come back in pieces often enough for it to be noticeable, though never quite as badly as the first time.

“Like stardust”, Ratchet says once, quiet and relieved as he watches them take wing, soaring into the sky after so long in recovery. “Burst into pieces, and start all over again.”

Drift tilts his head, glances at him at the sudden poetics. “What does that make you, then?”

Ratchet smiles, this soft, tired turn of his mouth. “Too old for this nonsense.”

 

Drift doesn't smile.

Drift only recognises him, and lets go.

 

He fought on his own most of his life, back in the Dead End, had expected to die the same way. He didn’t expect Ratchet to find him at his lowest, wounded from a mugging and out of his mind on circuit boosters, hoping either the stims or spark failure would take him out before he bled out completely.

He didn’t expect to wake up in a strange place with a concerned medic immediately snapping at him for trying to sit up when he was still recovering -- and even then, he never expected Ratchet to make him stay, to come back to check up on him again and again like it was important, like Drift _mattered._

It’s not like anyone in their right mind would want gutter scum around, least of all with the rumours and unrest running rampant since Megatron’s unforgettable row with the planetary Senate, and yet Ratchet glares and scowls and threatens reformatting to anyone who as much as _looks_ at Drift wrong once he’s well enough to be up and about. He drags him back to his side whenever Drift tries to slink into the shadows, somewhere he won’t taint Ratchet just by standing too close.

“I didn’t save you just for some entitled idiot to talk slag about you when our Protector’s gone glitched and half the planet is talking about revolution”, Ratchet scowls, shortly after his friend Pharma has left the clinic. He hands him an armful of small boxes, then grabs some himself. “Now come on, we’re leaving these at the shelter.”

No one is allowed to give Drift any slag, as far as Ratchet is concerned -- least of all Drift himself. Even Optimus Prime seems to know better than to question Ratchet's judgement, because the mech never acts like the new Drift-shaped presence in more or less every aspect of Ratchet’s life is anything but normal. Since the mech is about three times Drift’s size and in charge of the entire _planet_ , Drift is not about to question it at all.

He’d rather always stay with Ratchet, anyway, if he has any choice.

 

Drift noticed the door from the first time Ratchet brought him home, two districts from the clinic to his cozy top floor flat on the outskirts of Iacon, but he never actually dared to ask where it went.

After coming back from the graduation party for Spanner, the young medical student who’s been helping Ratchet as part of her clinical practice, though, Drift’s a little too giddy from the couple of drinks he’s had (his first since Ratchet found him, since he went completely clean) and the dances Ratchet wheedled him into, and the question slips out without any actual thought.

“I… have no idea”, Ratchet says, turning from the entry panel at the door to follow Drift’s gaze, optic ridges raising a little with surprise. He’s had his own share of drinks at the party, more than Drift had expected him to be able to take, and his face seems more expressive than usual. “Been living here since I went into medicine and I’d never even noticed the thing. Why?”

Drift shrugs, not too upset about the continuing mystery when Ratchet’s optics are sparkling like that. “Just curious, I guess.”

Ratchet glances to the door, tilts his head to look back at Drift, a half smile on his lips. “Want to find out?”

In hindsight, he’s not exactly sure if it’s forbidden to go up there, but the rickety state of the pull-down staircase the door reveals makes him think no one bothers one way or another. He’s too busy at the time, though, to bother with anything but delight, Ratchet’s answering laugh fizzing through his systems like the kind of ridiculously expensive high grade Drift’s only seen in movies.

They climb up the stairs as carefully as they can in their state, limbs occasionally tangling and making them snicker like sparklings. It’s dark when they finally surface, but a slight adjustment of their optics lets them see the tiny room they’ve arrived to, a large metal door the only notable feature.

Their gazes catch, and Drift grins wickedly before pushing the door open, and crossing without a thought.

A tiny breath catches in his throat.

He feels more than hears Ratchet step to his side, the way his frame goes still in quiet awe. Above them, far enough the city lights seem like a distant thought, a sea of glittering stars spreads across the pitch-black night.

Drift’s never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

They stand in mesmerised silence for what feels like an eternity, or a single breath. The air is cool against their plating, but not quite cold enough to bite, and below, the world is silent.

Drift’s hand finds Ratchet’s slowly, carefully, and when he presses their palms together, Ratchet laces his fingers with his own. His field is gentle as an embrace, and Drift’s spark slows, soothed, as though it really were one.

“Thank you”, he whispers, for once in his life not regretting a single thing, if it’s brought him to this moment. “Thank you for finding me.”

Ratchet’s fingers tighten around his own, less than a single breath’s pressure. Standing like this, together, feels like more than Drift can define. “Thank you for staying after I did.”

There’s no more need for words, after that.

 

Later, when it all falls apart, Drift wonders if he would’ve done anything differently, had he known.

 

  
Drift came first, and was there the longest. When the war breaks out, though, the Aerialbots become the priority.

The may be fully grown mechs, and Superion older than everyone Ratchet knows combined,but they’re just _kids_ , when you get down to it, and they've already been hurt so badly. It’s like the world insists on keeping them down.

“How are they?”, Drift asks quietly, leaning against the bench Ratchet is sitting on, watching the regen tanks with exhausted optics.

“Stable”, Ratched sighs, his body lights dim, the telltale sign that he hasn’t managed to recharge properly again. Maybe he hasn’t even tried. “It’ll take at least two stations for them to come out. Someone’s going to chew me out over resources, I can just tell, but I’m too tired to give a frag.”

“Let them come”, Drift says, earning a raised optic ridge from Ratchet. He half grins, the only comfort he can give. “Elita’s lot is teaching me to use swords now. Can’t give you notices if I slice the ‘pads in two.”

Ratchet laughs, barely more than a rough, low chuckle, still tinged with dejection but all the more wonderful for being there at all. “Pretty sure that’s just as bad, kid, but thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Their frames are close enough their fields brush, just a little. Drift nods, commits the curve of Ratchet’s fading smile to memory. “Any time.”

Airframes are not in the best standing at the moment, not after most Seekers joined the Decepticons and helped destroy a third of the planet’s Grid servers and archives. The Aerialbots in particular are even worse off once they finally get out of regen, partly because of their status as combiners and partly because they’re like a handful of frag bombs waiting to go off at the nearest chance.

Ratchet keeps them bound to medbay as much as he can, but half of them are hyperactive and the others mercurial in the worst way, especially when he’s not around. It’s not that they go picking fights as much as they just attract them like winged, belligerent magnets.

In the process, Ratchet stops having what little time he used to have left for Drift after everyone was done clamoring for his attention. Drift doesn't mind -- or, well, he _does_ , but he tries to bear it with grace. He knows it means Ratchet considers him an equal, that he trusts him to understand, and right now nobody else has time for the Aerialbots. No one but Ratchet and occasionally Wheeljack even bothers to try.

 

Drift was the rescued one, once. He wasn’t in the best place to appreciate it, then, how badly Ratchet wanted him to be well, how much he tried to help.

How he didn’t really know what he was doing, but never gave up trying.

It might be different, watching it from the outside, or maybe he just knows how to read him by now.

It’s not that Drift ever thought of himself as much of a peacemaker, but here he is. Elita One is too busy raising an army, Ironhide teaching Optimus how to go to war, and Ratchet’s still reeling at the sheer number of wounded and dead, much as he tries to hide it, so Drift takes it upon himself to shield him from the consequences of his actions, in all their ludicrously tall, winged glory.

They’re so _angry_ , is the thing, their grief still raw and bleeding before they nearly died, only amplified when they did. It’s how they survived, yes, but when death finally left, the rage remained in them, and they’re too new to this version of themselves to understand how to be rid of it  -- likely don’t even think they _can._ It’s much too similar to the memories Drift still wishes he could leave behind, still tries has to chase away every so often, so he desperately hopes he’s not making a mistake when he informs them he’s teaching them close quarters combat.

“What _for_?”, Air Raid says derisively, which is pretty much the only way he ever communicates with anyone outside his team. “We’re _fliers_ , smart guy, we only need to be able to shoot from the sky.”

Drift’s optics harden, even though he’d expected this sort of reaction. “The only reason you’re alive right now is Ratchet managed to save you after the Decepticons shot you down. He might not, next time, and I’m not going to let you break his spark by _dying_ on him when I can just teach you how to throw a damn punch.”

It’s not the entire truth, but it’s a better argument than ‘ _plus you’ve got a serious case of the resting murder face and everyone thinks you’re going to kill Prime in his recharge, and it’s making Ratchet stressed_ ’.

Slingshot looks like he wants to show Drift a thing or twenty about throwing a punch, and Air Raid is not far behind, but Silverbolt flicks a wing behind them, out of sight. From the minute narrowing of the others’ optics, he can tell there’s some sort of unspoken communication going on that he can’t get.

(They’re coalescent, Drift reminds himself wryly. There’s always something going on within them no one else will get.)

“We accept”, Silverbolt says blankly, like he doesn’t trust him enough to openly dislike him. Drift can never decide if it’s better or worse than Slingshot’s glaring. “But Blades and the other Protectobots get to come if they want.”

It’s better than Drift expected he would get, so he doesn’t question Silverbolt’s addition. “Very well. Meet me after curfew in the training bay. I’ll take care of the details.”

 

They’re surprisingly good at controlled violence. Ratchet is _extremely_ unimpressed.

“ _You_ ”, Ratchet hisses the moment he sees him, severely dented and kind of missing an arm. The Aerials all but flocked to the medic upon arrival, only mildly sheepish about breaking Drift and practically glowing after thirteen rounds of fighting.

Drift feels it’s a little unfair that all they got was some mandatory frowning for agreeing to fight him five-on-one before being sent to First Aid to get patched up, and yet he’s getting the full force of Ratchet’s murderous glare.

“Give me _one_ good reason not to reformat you into a dining set”, Ratchet growls, pulling Drift close so he can get a look at his shoulder, dislocated limb under his good arm.

Megatron himself wouldn’t be able to deny some trepidation in face of an incensed Ratchet, but Drift can’t notice anything but the careful touch of his hands, that infinitesimal pinch to his face when he’s truly worried.

“I thought it could help”, he admits quietly. “After you found me, I… I was pretty angry, too.”

Ratchet’s face softens, just slightly, lets one of his hands cup Drift’s good shoulder. “Drift…”

“You got Elita to help me find an outlet”, Drift interrupts, optics pleading for him to understand. “I know if was different, back then, but... you made time for me, Ratch, and I know you’re trying with them. I just wanted to help.”

They stay like that, for a moment, caught in each other’s gaze. After a long, seemingly infinite instant, Ratchet sighs.

“You’re going to be the death of me, kid”, he says, but his field washes over Drift like ocean waves, affection and worry and a quiet, endless gratitude. “Come on, let’s get you patched up.”

 

The Aerialbots hate everything not gestalt, which is why it’s so hard for Drift to believe it when they stop hating him after a while.  
It doesn't take long for them to start being stupidly reckless for his sake, too, which gives Ratchet more than a couple of headaches. Prime makes the mistake of praising Ratchet for getting through to the young fliers, and the glare he levels at him in response is so like Slingshot’s Drift wishes he could laugh.

“Not a word”, Ratchet warns him the second Prime has gone. Drift can’t quite help his grin.

“At least he thinks they’re doing better.”

Ratchet snorts. “Our definitions of ‘better’ are _wildly_ different.”

“It’s not _that_ bad”, Drift says, because he feels like someone should be defending the Aerialbots here. “Plus I do try to return the favour.”

“And together you make me want to grab one of you by the ankles and use you to smack the rest, so you’re better off shutting up”, Ratchet replies dryly.

Drift presses a hand to his spark and gives Ratchet a wounded look, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I am _devastated_ at the very suggestion. We’re nothing but the epitome of good behaviour.”

Ratchet rolls his optics, but he’s not quite able to keep down a deep laugh. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you punks, but it was either very good, or very bad.”

“You do remember I’m nearly as old as you, right?”, Drift smirks. Ratchet shakes his head, still amused as he rises to get back to work.

“Act like it, and then we’ll talk.”

 

There is peace to be found in the moments in between. Ratchet's smiles are rare and fleeting, hard to get out of him on most days, but Drift makes a point of spending his free time in medbay, even if Ratchet’s busy with something else.

Unfortunately, considering how ragged Ironhide is running every fighter on base, and how he’s still training the Aerialbots, sometimes he… kind of ends up dozing off on Ratchet’s desk. Just a couple of times.

Or a dozen.

“Drift”, Ratchet murmurs with a soft shake to Drift’s shoulder, a touch of amusement in his voice. “Kid, wake up. You’re napping on my requisition forms.”

“Hrmh?”, Drift says eloquently, finials twitching back as his struts protest his attempts to sit up. “I-- slag, sorry. I was waiting for you to get free.”

Ratchet smiles, just a little half quirk of his mouth. “No wonder you passed out, then. You had any fuel yet?”

“Earlier, before patrol. I’m good for a while yet”, Drift promises, still a little drowsy. He used to be able to go from recharge to wakefulness instantly, can still manage it most of the time. There’s something about medbay, however, with its clear lights and the scent of oil and disinfectant and _Ratchet_ , that makes Drift feel like he’s wading through silicone to come out of recharge.

“Alright. Why don’t you go get some proper rest, then? I’ll still be here another while”, Ratchet says, raising a hand to stroke the side of Drift’s helm.

“If anyone needs proper rest here, it’s you”, Drift replies. He can’t quite keep his optics from dimming, though, soothed by Ratchet’s touch. “I’d rather keep you company, if you’re going to stay.”

Ratchet huffs, but it’s more fond than exasperated. “You’re going to regret it in the morning.”

“Nah”, Drift says, and tilts his head back to give Ratchet a soft smile. “I won’t.”

“If you say so”, Ratchet says, and strokes the base of Drift’s right finial before removing his hand. “Come on, bring that chair over here.”

Drift blinks, but does as he’s told, pulling the chair around the desk next to Ratchet’s own. Ratchet takes his own back while he does, then tugs Drift’s closer with a hook of his foot. He waits for Drift to sit down, a datapad already in hand, and pats his lap with his free hand.

“Lie down”, Ratchet says, and Drift’s spark sings with hopeless affection as he obeys, pressing his back to Ratchet’s torso. One of his hands falls back to Drift’s finials, strokes in slow, even motions. “Get back to recharge.”

Safe, and calm, and utterly content, Drift does.

 

Less than a station after, the last of the neutral regions falls.

 

Ratchet’s office is quiet, after. The entire base is. Drift isn’t even thinking about Nyon anymore, about the haunted look in Rodimus’ optics as Springer led him down Skyfire’s ramp, Elita’s silent grief as she brought her creation close. There were a couple dozen other survivors, those who’d started evacuating soon enough to be out of range when the charges went off. Drift can hardly remember their faces.

He can’t bring himself to walk through the door.

The medbay is spotless whenever they’re between battles, Ratchet and the others constantly working to keep it an oasis of order among the chaos. His office, on the other hand, tends to be covered in datapads and medical supplies, as well as bits of whatever he and Wheeljack are working on at any given time. Ratchet’s sitting by his desk, not quite facing completely away, the cup of energon between his hands lighting him faintly in half profile.

His voice is rough when he speaks, the downwards curve of his mouth startling Drift out of stillness. “Either come in or leave, Drift. I’m not in a mood for patience.”

“I didn’t know if I was still welcome”, Drift replies quietly, steps near-silently inside, and the door slides shut when he does. Ratchet had blocked general access, he realises with a pang of regret, and yet the door had opened for him.

“I guess neither of us knows the other as well as we thought, then”, Ratchet murmurs, giving up on his energon and placing the cup on the desk. His field is kept close to his frame, body language deceptively neutral. He won't look at Drift.

It's more than he can bear, after everything that's happened today. "Don't say that”, Drift whispers, coming face to face with Ratchet. His hands shake as he takes Ratchet's in his own, but the medic doesn't pull them away, lets Drift sit back on his haunches so he can look up at him. "You know someone had to, after everything Rodimus said. We can't let something like this happen again.”

Some spark returns to Ratchet's optics, anger blazing blue. "And you thought the only solution was to volunteer for a suicide mission.”

"I think", Drift says, as steady as he can, “I'd rather do it myself, regardless of danger, if it means keeping everyone safe.” _If it means keeping_ you _safe._

Ratchet lets his optics dim, a shuddering sigh escaping him as he presses his face to Drift's shoulder. His field is roiling with conflicting emotions, rage and helplessness and pride, some undefinable warmth at its core that Drift has never felt from anyone else.

"If you don't come back in one piece", Ratchet says, his voice as quiet as it is fierce, "I'm siccing Superion on you.”

Drift's answering chuckle crackles with grief and static, but just this once, he allows himself to pull Ratchet as close as he's always wanted. “I won't. I promise.”

"Good", he murmurs. "Good.”

 

  
He's on his own from the moment they remove his insignia.

The Autobots are only foolish enough to think an assassination will work on the Lord Protector himself once. Just the once, but it's all the stranger needs. He takes the shot meant for Megatron's back, kills the one who took it even with a missing arm and half his insides melting from the slow-acting acid, the formula stolen from the Decepticons without their notice less than a station ago. By the time he presents Megatron with the torn spark casing of the would-be assassin, the entirety of Kaon is in an uproar.

A nameless mech from Rodion dies at Lord Megatron's feet, and at his command Deadlock rises from the ashes.

 

It’s Deadlock's game, from then on. The less Drift thinks about it the better.

 

  
They hunt him down eventually. Of course they do, these handfuls of stardust and their bleeding sparks. They're far too much like their carer.

They’re all fresh from battle, dented and sparking in various degrees, their optics raging, raging, and yet somehow contained. He’s seen them razing battlefields like wildfires in the Phosphorus Plains, but right now they’re banked to a hearth, for all the untamed edge to them, a breath of home that breaks Drift’s spark with longing.

There isn’t much preamble after they box him in, ruthlessly efficient in a way they weren’t the last time Drift saw them. Their frames and faces are slightly different, damage and growth captured in living metal, just enough to be noticeable as a whole.

Slingshot steps close, Silverbolt and Air Raid at his back.

“I don’t care what Prime or whoever said”, Slingshot says slowly, dangerous as he only is when he’s trying to keep what he loves safe. “You need an out, you shoot at us during battle. We know you can make it hit. Either we get you home, or Superion will.”

 _You know I can’t,_  Drift nearly says, Deadlock chafing inside him at the idea that they think him so weak, even as his counterpart wants to gather them close and hold them tight, tell them how immensely proud he is of them, of how far they've come along.

“Okay”, he says instead, voice closer to his own, faded hints of a learnt Iacon cadence buried in Deadlock’s Dead End growl. The Aerialbots remain alert, but something in them relaxes, the burning look on Silverbolt’s face warming into protectiveness, Air Raid’s chin lifting with approval. “I will.”

Fireflight extracts a small flask out of subspace, flicks it Drift’s way. It smells like that engex Ratchet likes, like the handful of times he’d been the one to steal Drift away after a particularly rough battle, looking after him the way he never did himself.

“Don’t get dead”, Skydive says gently, a weight heavier than just their five sparks reverberating in his voice. “Superion would miss you.”

They take off as one before he can do more than nod.

 

Deadlock sees him exactly once, during battle. He’s avoided him as much as he can, so far, knows if he gets close enough for Drift to resurface he’s going to ruin it all.

This time, though, he isn't careful enough.

It’s a battle of attrition, everyone scattered throughout the ruins of Protihex’s largest district, pockets of each army trying to run each other out into the open, or eliminate them before they know they’re there. It’s not quite what Deadlock’s used to -- he’s good at fast, heavy damage, darting in and out before anyone can land a proper hit, which is why he isn’t surprised he got shot while changing cover. At least he could get away with stunning his attacker instead of killing them, alone as he was.

He’s taken shelter in a dilapidated building to patch himself up, just enough he will be able to tread quickly without bleeding out on some empty street -- but there’s the slightest sound, then, rubble shifting on the ground, and he’s got the newcomer pinned to the wall with a pistol to the temple and an arm at their throat before they can even react.

Then their optics meet.

“ _Drift_ ”, Ratchet whispers, and the snarl freezes in Deadlock’s face.

 _That’s not my name_ , he wants to tell him, but even Deadlock can’t bring himself to say the words.

Ratchet’s field is a thunderstorm, too many emotions ripping through it at once, an onslaught of memory Drift could never have prepared to feel again. His optics are full of yearning and bright as blue suns, and every point of contact between them is burning.

The gun pressed to Ratchet’s temple drops, a dull sound of metal on metal as it clamps back to the magnetic holster on Deadlock’s hip. There’s no sound but the overworked whir of their systems, thunderous in the sudden hush; the battle must have moved to another sector, the Autobots’ medical corps following in search of their dead and wounded.

Drift’s arm lowers from Ratchet’s throat, down to his chest. He feels like he could measure the spin of Ratchet’s spark, if he had a moment longer.

Suddenly the sound of heavy steps breaks the silence, and Drift has a split second to roll out of the way before an unknown Autobot barges into the crumbling room, guns blazing. The four shots meant for Deadlock’s head go wide, but another from the following barrage grazes his side, and the last thing he sees before he jumps through the window is the broken look in Ratchet’s face.

They don’t see each other again for a long time.

 

Cities and regions and half a world away, curled gently around the one mech who ever sheltered his fragments from the world, Superion sings of comfort and hope.

 

The world is hurt and dust and ruin.

“Shh, don’t move. I’ve got you. You’re not alone.”

It isn’t the voice he needs to hear. He struggles to stay awake, and when the darkness consumes him, it’s with anguish in his spark.

 

There’s a hand wrapped around his own.

It’s clinging tightly enough it would hurt if he could feel anything but pressure, but its thumb is drawing tiny, reassuring circles on his plating. Several voices are humming a quiet song, murmuring about a long gone world in a harmonising croon, and it soothes the ache in his mind.

_So come home, said the valley / Way down past the hills / Come home, little wing, come home._

“Ratchet?”, Drift says -- or tries to, his vocaliser producing nothing but faint static after what feels like ages of disuse.

The the hand around his stills, a breath catching. “ _Drift_.”

The song stops immediately, pillars collapsing one by one. “Oh slag--”

“First Aid, he’s coming back online!”

“Drift, can you see us?”

“Shut _up,_ Ratch’s trying to hear!”

The world is becoming clearer, dark bleeding away in favour of greys, hints of blinding white where the light hits. “Ratchet”, he rasps again, and this time his voice responds.

“ _Drift!_ ” Drift’s optics online in full just in time for him to see a blur of white and red as Ratchet throws himself at him, hands clinging desperately to whatever they can find, and Drift immediately responds in kind, field bursting into an electromagnetic storm. “You’re safe, you’re back, Drift--”

The rest of his senses return at once, the scent of medbay disinfectant and airframe oil and _Ratchet_ making his spark go nova. “Ratch, it’s-- I’m okay, I promise, it’s alright.”

The field above him flares, exasperation almost surpassing the maelstrom of euphoria and relief, and Ratchet draws back just far enough to glare at him, but his optics can’t keep from roving over Drift’s face. “Some random _neutral_ found you nearly _dead_ , that’s-- I _told you_ I would sic Superion on you, just wait until you’re out of this fragging bed.”

“Just for the record”, Silverbolt says over Ratchet’s shoulder, the Aerialbots and half the Protectobots having seemingly teleported into the room in the thirty seconds since he woke up, “Superion says he’s in.”

“Defensor will help”, Blades adds airily, grinning when Slingshot elbows him on the side.

“I think they’ll have to get through Ratchet first”, Hot Spot laughs.

Ratchet struggles to contain an answering smile, and immediately fails. “We’ll see”, he says, and looks at Drift with so much fondness he can’t help but beam like an absolute fool. “We’ll see.”

 

**Epilogue: Earth**

_"_ Oh Primus, they were actually being _serious_ ”, Rodimus laughs, the odd speck in the moon’s sky slowly shaping into a massive jet.

Drift shakes his head, amusement and fondness seeping into him in response to the delight in his spark.

 _I told you they were getting impatient_ , Ratchet points out through the bond, more than a little pleased. Drift can practically hear his voice.

 _And I’ll never doubt your expertise again._ He glances at the Lost Light, gleaming dark silver in the perennial night of this half of the planet’s moon, turns to give Rodimus a wicked grin. “Think Magnus will be too mad if we skip planetfall?”

Rodimus grins back. “Are you kidding me? He’s going to love arriving ahead of schedule. Prowl won’t even know what hit him.”

“I’ll let you give him the good news, then”, Drift says, giving Roddy an amused huff in return to the ridiculous waggle of his optic ridges before he scampers off to find Ultra Magnus.

_Ready to see our new home, then?_

Drift silently opens himself to the bond, letting Ratchet’s sensory input wash over him. The planet’s vibrant sun is just starting to rise over the horizon, promising a clear, bright dawn. He smiles, and Ratchet mirrors the gesture, just a spark spin away. _I can’t wait._


End file.
